


Beneath the Blanketing White

by daphnerunning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Morning Sex, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, Tolkien Secret Santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Even in Himring the Ever-Cold, there is softness and warmth, with the fires built up high against the falling snow.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 63
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Beneath the Blanketing White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8Lottie8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8Lottie8/gifts).



> Written for Tolkien Secret Santa 2020. My giftee is @lottiefairchildbranwell on tumblr. Hope you enjoy Lottie!!! I hope you like it!! <3

“Himring,” Fingon stated, as if he were making a pronouncement, “is _too cold._ ”

Maedhros grunted, still mostly asleep. Then, as Fingon pulled back the heavy furs and coverlets, sliding his chilled body directly up against Maedhros’s back, he made another noise, jolting out of sleep. “Finno,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “I have to be up for muster at dawn.”

Unrepentant, Fingon wrapped his ice-cold hands around Maedhros’s waist, holding more tightly when he thrashed in protest, apparently unworried that a stray elbow might catch him in the nose. “No,” he said, and hooked his chin over Maedhros’s shoulder.

“No?”

“No.”

Maedhros felt his lips twitch. “Is that an order from the High Prince?” he asked, and shifted his hips back, making contact with Fingon’s, hearing him suck in a breath in response.

“Er...it wasn’t supposed to be,” Fingon admitted, stuffing his face into the back of Maedhros’s shoulder, sliding down to make more proper contact. His hands shifted up, still chilly, and brushed over his nipples, making him shiver. “But it can be, if that’s something you’d like.”

Maedhros closed his hand over one of Fingon’s wandering ones, letting out a little breathy noise. “Stop it,” he murmured, in a different tone than before, that implied a good deal less _stopping_. “Muster. Dawn. Even if the High Prince has something else on his mind.”

Fingon’s chuckle in his ear warmed him faster than the fire crackling in the hearth. It _was_ crackling, Maedhros noticed, rather than being smoored for the night, covered carefully in ash and moss to keep the embers alive without having to be fed constantly. Fingon must have stoked it and tossed on another log when he got up to relieve himself. “I think the Lord of Himring has something else on his mind, too,” Fingon breathed, and slid his cold hands down, playing over the taut skin of his abdomen, splaying out over the fronts of his thighs. Maedhros felt him rousing, already half-hard through their nightshirts, slowly rubbing against him from behind.

“...Of course I do.” Maedhros turned, and caught Fingon’s mouth in his own, nibbling on his lower lip for a slow, indulgent kiss. “You’re in my bed, after all. But that doesn’t absolve me of my duties.”

“Mm,” Fingon said, as if this were no problem at all. His hands crept to the hem of Maedhros’s shirt, pushing it up and out of the way, and for all his nominative protestations, Maedhros made little move to tug it back down. Fingon’s legs were warming fast, threaded through his, though he did catch Fingon’s hand with his own as it tried to slide up.

“They’re still cold. If you want me hard, warm them first.”

He thought he could _feel_ the sparkle of mischief in Fingon’s eyes. “Wait,” he warned, “I didn’t mean--“

The noise he let out was a quite dignified one, of course. He was the Lord of Himring. He did not squeak. Even when Fingon’s cold hands were suddenly thrust between his thighs, he did _not_ squeak. “ _Finno_ , I told you--“

“It snowed.”

Maedhros stilled, his pulse beating swiftly under his skin. “Snow?”

“Mm. A lot. As high as the tallest foundation stones, I saw it when I went to piss off the wall. I know you were going to ride out to survey, but you can’t, not in this.”

That would be higher than Maedhros’s head. It had begun the night before, but none of the seers had predicted a blizzard of that size. The hostlers would need to re-provision, the fires would need to be built up in the Great Halls, the outbuildings would need to be provided for--

“Not yet,” Fingon murmured again, and slid his hands up, the warming skin there touching his thighs, making him shiver even under the heavy quilts. “Your soldiers know what to do, don’t they? Surely you don’t suffer incompetence in your subordinates.”

His soldiers _did_ know what to do, Maedhros had to admit, and finally started to relax back against Fingon, his eyes lidding.

There was a soft, otherworldly muffling of the sounds outside. The windows were tightly shut, hides nailed across them to block out the brutal wind that often carved around corners of his fortress, but all was silent now. The usual calls of birds and beasts were absent, the early morning shuffling around the inner sanctum of servitors fetching wood and baking bread all curiously muted.

Snow blanketed Himring, and perhaps underneath it, he could steal a gentle morning’s bliss.

With a sigh, he reached back, threading his fingers into Fingon’s hair, feeling them slide into and through his braids, close to his scalp. “You have a way to spend the morning in mind, my Prince?”

“I do. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

“Oh, will I?”

Fingon finally retrieved his hands from where they were buried between Maedhros’s thighs, and for all the easy laziness of his movements, there was nothing hesitant in the way he curled one around Maedhros’s cock, and let the other slide back to tease his hole.

His breath hitched, feeling the first press, then slide of a finger inside him, his fingers tightening in Fingon’s braids. “Ah...”

“Mm, good,” Fingon murmured, still sounding at least half-asleep, as if the way his clever fingers stroked and twisted was second nature to him. “I knew I enjoyed you thoroughly last night, but it’s one thing to _know_ , and another thing to _feel_. Are you sore, _arimelda_?”

“Ah...a little. Just a little.” The twinge was nothing, compared to the aches and pains he always felt, but Fingon liked to hear about it, and Maedhros did love to indulge him.

“Then it really has been too long between my visits.” Fingon pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “Hand me the oil, husband mine.”

Maedhros drew in a slow breath, and extricated his hand from Fingon’s hair, only to pluck the flask of sweet oil from the bedside that they’d long ago stopped pretending was for anything else. “It’s always too long between your visits.”

“Of course,” Fingon said, and carefully removed his hands, unscrewing the flask, tipping out a generous portion, and flicking the lid back on. “But, worry not. When the Shadow is vanquished, there will be no visits, for we will abide together, so you can begin to get _very_ sick of me.”

“I don’t--“ Maedhros broke off, as two slick fingers worked into him, and his voice came out breathy, needing, his spine arching as he worked himself hungrily down onto that touch, so intimate and satisfying, stoking his own fires. The slickness of the oil eased the slight soreness clinging to him, and he gripped the sheets for some purchase. “Nn, Finno...it will be long _indeed_ before I get sick of you touching me like this.”

“Then perhaps it will be me who tires of it,” Fingon suggested, a smile curling his lips. “But only because I lack patience, _arimelda_ , and cannot hear you making such sounds without wanting to bury myself inside you.”

“Good.” Maedhros arched back, unrepentant in his desire now that Fingon was playing him like his harp. “Enough, more than enough. I need you now.”

“You’re very demanding for someone who was pushing me away not three minutes hence,” Fingon informed him, and nibbled affectionately on his neck, making him suck in a slow, shivering breath. He eased his fingers out, and almost casually, as if it were merely the natural progression of such a thing, shifted to press his hard length up and _in_. He let out a little sigh, nuzzling his face against Maedhros’s shoulder, as if this were no more than the act of a fish returning to the water, of a soldier sheathing a sword.

Maedhros groaned, pulling the blankets tight around them, his toes curling with each languid press into his already burning body. There was something about being taken again when he was still humming from the last time that made him feel delicious. He rocked back, biting his lip as he did, feeling Fingon’s arms come warm and strong around him. “Feels good,” he murmured, and heard his own voice come out low and rough, still full of sleep and the lack of pressures of the day. “Finno, feels so good, you feel so good in me.”

“That’s,” Fingon breathed into his ear, his hips rocking in an easy, unhurried rhythm, “because I’m meant to be in you, _arimelda_. Don’t you think?”

Maedhros nodded, and surrendered to the slow stretch, the slick sense of being filled again and again that made his mouth part, made him pant. They knew each other in every sense by now, and Fingon well knew how to bring him to completion quickly, if he wanted. But it was snowing, and it was early, and the two of them were warm in the middle of Himring the Ever-Cold, enjoying each others’ bodies with unrepentant leisure.

Without the wind, there was little way to measure the passage of time. Fingon spoke low and sweet in his ear from time to time-- _beautiful, my bright flame, give all Arda for one moment by your side, move like that again, make that sound again, mine, mine, mine_ \--but for what felt like hours, simply moved within him. Maedhros found himself shuddering despite the warmth, little beads of sweat forming at his hairline as Fingon moved his hands, caressing him from shoulders to thighs, never lingering too long on anything that would bring him close to climax.

Finally, Maedhros opened his mouth to plead, to beg for more, to beg Fingon to set them both free, but before he could say anything, Fingon’s hands gripped his hips, and his angle shifted.

Slow pleasure melted into sudden heat, as the rhythm changed. Then there was a hand at his cock, another toying with his nipples, and Fingon’s cock deliberately striking him so perfectly inside that he let out a far louder cry than he’d intended, arousal surging through him. “I can’t,” he gasped, and heard Fingon grunt behind him.

“Nor I,” his husband admitted breathlessly. “Tell me, please--“

Maedhros nodded, hair falling into his face as he shoved his hips back, the gentle somnolence of the mood bled into something carnal and urgent. Fingon loved it when he spoke at the end, and just as Fingon knew all the secrets of his body, he knew all the secrets of Fingon’s mind. “Spill in me, Finno, please, you know I love it when you fill me, I won’t be able to think of anything else all day but how well you enjoyed me--“

Fingon’s fingers tightened, his body stiffened, and he surged forward, suddenly maddened, with a flurry of urgent thrusts that left Maedhros clinging to the blankets for some purchase. Finally, with a low, eager moan, he felt Fingon pulse hot inside of him, the feeling so precisely what he hungered for that it pushed him over the edge, spilling into Fingon’s hand on his cock.

Snow fell. Maedhros drowsily felt that he could sense it, piling around Himring, closing them in, building an ephemeral shield of soft frozen water to insulate them from the rest of the world, from time, even from Oaths. The world froze, but it was warm under the coverlets, with Fingon’s arms around him.

“Fuck,” Fingon said abruptly, and rolled away, so suddenly Maedhros let out a startled little sound. But it was hardly the first time, and he took the hint. Fingon’s ears were more sensitive than his own, giving them a few extra important seconds of warning, as they fumbled for breeches and tugged down nightshirts, hastily cleaning themselves up before light footsteps approached swiftly, and small hands pounded on the door.

“Ada!” came the high-pitched voice. “It _snowed_.”

“Yeah?” Fingon called, hastily doing up his flies. “Give me a second, I’m still in bed!”

“But we’re going to have a battle! I need your help!”

“Uh huh!”

“We’re picking teams! I want Lord Maedhros!”

Maedhros blinked, both at the words and at the indignant look on Fingon’s face. “Why?” he called, tossing the rag he used to clean up into the basin, and shrugging into his robes. “If it’s a snowball fight, I’m hardly the best choice.”

“Why don’t you want me?” Fingon demanded, and as soon as he checked that they were both somewhat decent, flung open the bolt on the door.

Ereinion came tumbling in, apparently having been leaning his full weight on the door in an attempt to force the bolt, and rolled quickly to his feet, hair flying about his face. He beamed, and ran over to Maedhros, grabbing his sleeve and tugging. “It’s a _tactical battle_ , Ada. You have to lead the opposing forces.”

“I can’t make snowballs,” Maedhros reminded the child, who stood no higher than his waist. “Or if I can, they’re quite small.”

“We have _plenty_ of people to make the snowballs,” Ereinion insisted. “You’re the best Captain, though! I mean, I’m going to be the Captain, and you have to follow my orders, but you can tell me what to do!”

Maedhros gave Fingon a helpless look, and submitted to being led. “I...very well, Captain. My strength is yours.”

“Hey!” Fingon protested, hopping into his boots as he ran out after them. “I used to beat the King of Gondolin at every snowball fight, you know! And he would build massive forts out of the stuff.”

“All right,” Ereinion told him, unconcerned. “But we agreed, only one adult per team. And I want to win.”

Even Himring the Ever-Cold had bright days of sunshine, glinting off of the snow more brightly than any twinkling jewels. Even in the cold of the snow, there was victory to be had, with Ereinion proudly proclaiming himself the Tallest Captain, riding upon his shoulders to destroy the forts of the opposing teams, human and elven children shrieking and laughing together.

Even overlooking Lothlann and the dread peaks beyond, there was softness. Maedhros made sure of it, and then tossed Ereinion into one of the largest snowdrifts, hearing him shriek with delight. Fingon’s eyes met his, and warmth flared within him, fiercer than any snowstorm.

“Himring is still too cold,” Fingon informed him, and stuffed a snowball down the collar of his shirt.


End file.
